Lark's Song
by MoonyXmadness
Summary: The tale of a great artist's little lark. How he loved it, caging it up to protect it from the world. But the world broke through. M for violence/subject matter.
1. Chapter 1

Indulging in my head-cannon for Kyle Fitzpatrick, the pianist in Fleet Hall from Bioshock~ this is just the veryvery beginning of Fitz's life in Rapture, and it's supposed to go until he blows up with his beloved piano, but I have yet to write that far.

Enjoy~

**[Fitzpatrick****residence,****1950]**

A man with fiery red hair stood, arm drawn back as if to lash out with it. Pupils dilated in the center of blood shot eyes, he snarled at the child in front of him movements sporadic even as he tried to stand still, "You ungrateful little _shit,_ takin' that _tone_ with me?"

"N-no, m'sorry, I-I di'n mean ta" the spiting image of the raging man sat on the floor legs folded at the knees, resting as they had been when they had given out from underneath him and sent him to the floor. The twelve year old's shoulders slumped, fear and submission evident even in his posture. One hand covered his damaged eye as he sobbed pitifully, begging the man's forgiveness. The elder swung out, splitting the child's lip with the force as his hand connected with skin, sending the younger redhead backwards, curling on the floor.

"James, James stop it!" a dainty woman rushed out to grab at her husbands arm, dark ringlets of hair falling out of place from the struggle, "Keep your hands off of him!" she shrieked as he pushed her back, the fear that sped her heart beat hidden behind the mask of pure anger on her usually delicate features, "How d_are_you treat your son like that, you _know_ he did nothing wrong-"

"Shut up, Shut up, _Shut__up!__" _Blue currents ran up James' arms as he clasped his temples, keeling forward as if the sound of her voice sent sharp pains through his very being.

"_No_ I won't let you hit him any more." She moved to approach him again, halted as he threw his arm out at her in an attempt to fend her away. The woman screamed, the haunting sound filled with agony and sharp at pitch. She writhed on the ground as the Electricity from James' arm flew out at her, his anger triggering his plasmid; _Electrobolt_. As flashes of blue faded to the faint flickering across the now still woman's skin, the redheaded man looked up, twisted features calmer then before as he slowly approached her.

"...L...Lucy..?" Eyes wide and mouth slack, her pain and fear frozen on the face of her corpse, James frowned, reaching out to her before a light shuffling caught his attention. He jerked his head to the side as his son slowly sat back up wiping the blood from his mouth, only managing to smear it across his face. He blinked, disorientated. "Kyle...?" he breathed out the name, the raging insanity wiped form his features as he looked at the battered child.

Kyle watched the motionless figure on the ground, waiting for her to stand, move, anything. But she stayed still. "...M-mommy?" his voice was rasped and frail.

The calm only lasted a moment, James letting out a sharp scream more-so in fear then the anger he had expressed before. With out another word the man fled the apartment, leaving his only child and the corpse of his wife behind.

**[Main****Atrium,****Fort****Frolic,****1950]**

The taste of blood was still pungent in his mouth, probably still staining his skin as well if the few passerbys looks had anything to say about it. The child had wandered aimlessly out of his apartment, not wanting to sit there, alone, in the dark... with a corpse. His face wiped clean of emotion as he stared ahead of him, gaze unfocused. He could hardly see out of his swollen eye by now, but it didn't matter, he wouldn't need to see if he didn't know where he was going in the first place.

A voice sounded from somewhere around him, but he didn't try to find the source; it seemed faded and hollow in his ears. Was it a recording? No, there were hands on his shoulders now, and the voice was closer...

"My dear boy, whatever has happened to you?" Kyle blinked dumbly up at the man speaking to him, his face was familiar. He was famous, wasn't he? An artist, the _owner_ of Fort Frolic. Sander Cohen was speaking to him with concern lining each word though it was too upbeat a tone for real sorrow, "You're the young pianist that plays in that book store, are you not? My God, you look terrible, poor thing." he brushed mused bangs off of the redheads forehead, not waiting for a response before speaking again, "are your parents here? We'll find them later, how about we clean you up?" the hand placed delicately between his shoulder blades pushed him in an unknown direction with the Artist, who tsk'd softly, "no need for tears, little one, chin up."

Kyle reached up to touch his cheeks, fingers meeting the tears now deluding the blood on his face; he hadn't realized he had started to cry.


	2. Chapter 2

**[Sander Cohen's apartment, 1950]**

It had taken time to get any form of coherent answer from the boy; questions asked between soothing words. Whatever had happened seemed to have shut the child down, so to speak, but Cohen had gained enough knowledge to act on a decision; bringing the lost young redhead home with him until he figured out just what was wrong.

The child, Kyle as he said his name was, sat silently where he was told to. Hysteria from whatever trauma had befallen him yet to set in; only a few stray tears dampening his cheeks as the fell from lifeless eyes. The artist sat beside him on the sofa, damp wash cloth in one hand, the other cupping Kyle's chin to keep it in place as the grime was wiped away.

"My, my, what a lovely face you have under this mess, though not one I could compare to any citizens I have seen, may I ask your parents' names, dear child?"

Kyle searched the other man's face as if he didn't understand the question, eye brows furrowing in a slight form of expression that had been so vacant from his features, "...Lucy...n'James Fitzpatrick." The names were unfamiliar as well, definitely not occupants of the social elites such as himself.

"I see, now, where might they be? A child really shouldn't be wandering about alone at such an hour." This coaxed further expression from the boy, eyes widening as they shifted to the side trying to recall the answer. Lips worked for a moment silently before he shook his head. "Do you not know?" Another shake, this time more frantic as he moved backwards on the couch, backing away from the darker haired man.

"I-I had ta leave, sh-she wunnit movin', n-no one would help me!" expression flooded his words and features, eyes widening further as tears spilled out of them, sorrow and fear marring the mask he had previously worn. Cohen waited as the boy continued to speak, most of his words incoherent from the anxiety in his voice and broken sobs (as well as a quite disgusting New York-esque accent, he noted with a mental sneer) though the older man was able to get the gist of the tale.

Cohen shushed the boys frantic sobbing, reaching a hand to brush back fiery locks from Kyle's forehead in a soothing gesture. The artist had never cared much for children, useless things they were; taking up space and time, loud and filthy. But this child was quite, calm and obedient, even through the temporary trauma he seemed to hold these qualities. As well as the talent he had displayed for the piano . . . "Dear child, how would you like to stay with me for the night? We can sort out your situation in the morning," as well as notify the authorities, though he kept this thought to himself, "but you must be exhausted."

Kyle nodded, rubbing his now red eyes with his knuckles, the action weary of his bruise.

The child slept soundly on Cohen's couch, sleep overtaking him almost immediately upon laying down. He mumbled softly on occasion, but otherwise remained still and quite. Cohen occupied the kitchen, leaning against one of the fine marble counters as he spoke into the phone pressed to his ear.

"Yes, _another_ murder in Artemis Suites, a child was wandering through my halls, he was in a dreadful state I-...well of course I stopped him, I recognized him as the young pianist that plays at one of my bookstores, he's quite talented for his age." He paused, listening until the person he spoke to ceased talking, giving a few small nods even though they couldn't be seen, "Well...I can't just abandoned the poor boy to the streets-...Maybe I am, he's not an infant, he can't require _that _much work, can he?" a huff escaped his lips as if offended, "I am aware he is not a _pet_, and I am quite capable of taking care of him... That is _exactly_ what I intend to do. Now I only called you to ask you to inform some of your henchme-... police officers, whatever you call them, to clean up the mess left in his apartment so I may take him back there tomorrow to gather anything he needs. Yes. Thank you. Goodnight, Andrew." The artist hung up the phone with a small sigh before heading back into the front room to check on his guest.

**[Fort Frolic, boutique, 1950]**

"Mistah Cohen?"

"Mist**er**. Yes, child?"

Kyle frowned at the correction, taking his eyes off the woman winding a measuring tape around his arm for the moment to look at the man he addressed, "Mist**er** Cohen, Why do I gotta-" his frowned deepened, correcting himself this time"...why do I have to get new clothes?"

Cohen sighed, laying the book he was reading down to pay full attention to the redhead, "Aren't you happy I'm buying you new things? Much nicer things as well. If you are to be my responsibility then you are to dress accordingly. And I won't have you running around in rags."

"Oh...yessir" Kyle didn't bother arguing further. He really was grateful for the new clothes, and to be taken in with open arms by such a kind and wealthy man. Even if he had to stand there being measured in some high class boutique for the time and he got in trouble for his accent even though he couldn't really control it. Kyle went back to watching the woman as she rolled up the measuring tape, giving him a kind smile before addressing Cohen.

"He's not going to be hard to fit, so if you stop by later night I'll have some of the alterations finished. At least enough to cloth him for the time," she chuckled airily, "the rest will be done by the end of the week."

"Aah, Alisha, you're too wonderful, thank you so much for your time, I'll pay you in full when I pick up what you have done tonight." Cohen stood as he spoke, clasping the woman's dainty hands between his own as he thanked her. The darker haired man beckoned Kyle with a curl of his finger, holding his hand out to take the boys hand and lead him out of the shop.

He spent the next few days at Cohen's side, following him like a shadow as they acquired things for Kyle's stay with the artist as well as when, as Cohen had informed him earlier, he moved into his own apartment. In between all the walking, shopping, and the occasional stops for meals Kyle stood idly by as Cohen would meet with other important figures of Rapture (though Kyle hadn't a clue who most of them were) or boss around the occasional shop owner. Over all Kyle often became very bored with the daily routines.

It took four days of similar routines before something changed. Foregoing the shops and other occupants of the atrium, Cohen lead them into the main entrance of Fleet Hall.

"Come along young Fitzpatrick, I have something I want you to do for me." Kyle didn't realise he had fallen behind the other man, slowing his steeps to gawk at the high vaulted ceilings and lush reds and golds colouring the walls and stage.

"Yessir," he mumbled, picking up his pace to walk along side Cohen once more. They walked down the side stairwell, around the stage and into the hallway leading behind it.

"I've listened you play the piano before, in that book store," he glanced over at kyle, who returned the look with a cautious gaze, "and I want you to play for me, can you do that?" The red head nodded slowly, following him through a door that had slid open. It wasn't a very large room, much less extravagant then the main auditorium. A few instruments stacked in the corner as well as an old upright piano on the opposite wall was all that filled the room.

Kyle hesitated a moment but moved over to where the piano stood, sitting down at the bench, and lifting the Fall before Cohen had even made his way to stand beside the boy. He bit his lip as he looked over the keys, placing his fingers delicately on the ivory; he hadn't been near a piano in at least two weeks..

"W-what do ya want me ta play...?" he blinked over at Cohen, remembering the reason he was sitting there in the first place.

"Whatever you can," The older man gave him a small smile, placing a hand against the centre of his back. Kyle nodded, turning back to the keys to stare at them for a moment longer, trying to recall what piece he knew best.

He adjusted his posture as he chose a piece, placing his hands on the correct keys. Taking a deep breath he began playing, blocking out the room around him, the man beside him, and the thoughts clouding his mind.


	3. Chapter 3

Sorry, this one's short and just kinda Fitz meeting Martin for the first time sobs/ but yea, at least I updated~

**[Behind Fleet Hall, 1950]**

"Who's the mutt?" A brow quirked as the scent of cigarette smoke quickly filled the room with the flick of a lighter.

"Now now, Martin, that's no way to speak of young Fitzpatrick here." The second occupant of the room gave a wide sweep of his arm, gesturing to the small boy beside him.

Said boy stood quietly, arms crossed firmly over his chest and shoulders slumped as if he meant to curl in on himself. A splatter of freckles coated his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, dusky auburn hair was brushed into place, clothing neat and obviously expensive. Pale blue eyes were wide watching the brunette across the room as if he were threatening to hit him rather then toying idly with the lighter in his hand. The boy had reason to fear a fist to the face if the faded yellowing bruise around his eye had anything to say about it. . .

Martin shrugged off the scrawny kid blinking nervously at him from behind the artist, "so ya give him a fancy new collar, Sander, don't make him any less what he is. What're you doin' with him anyway?."

"I am to be his new guardian." The elder of the three spoke in a proud tone, placing the hand he had gestured with on the boy's shoulder, "and as such, when I dub him old enough, he is to be one of my disciples, a colleague to you, so to speak."

"Yea?" Martin's expression held complete skepticism, "and what is it you're good at, kid?"

The red head flinched as he was addressed, looking to the man beside him as if waiting for him to answer in his stead. As Cohen remained silent the boy opened his mouth to speak, voice soft and slightly tinged with a Bostonian accent, "I-I, uhm...play the piano, sir."

**[Sander Cohen's apartment, Olympus heights, 1950]**

"The kid's good for...how old did you say he was? Twelve?" The two men sat on a plush, deep indigo couch placed in the center of the front room of Sander Cohen's apartment.

"Mmh, yes, that's why I took him in, " Cohen let out a fluttering laugh, "though he does have a very tragic story to go along as well; his mother was brutally murdered, Father no where to be found, that and he was abused, poor thing, he wandered right up to me the day it happened like a lost little moth, drawn to my flame."

"Abuse? S'at where the uh..." Martin flicked his wrist, motioning towards his own eye while glancing over at Where Fitzpatrick, Kyle as Cohen had mentioned was his first name, was kicking his legs in a bored manner as he sat at the piano bench, having been told to stop playing.

"Yes, he's told me his father was quite the drinker, I've readily assumed it was that man's doing." Cohen always sounded so sure of himself, just as he _always_ had something to say.

"Huh, poor kid." No sympathy was held in the voice uttering the phrase.

"Mmh, yes. Well, there was more a reason for me introducing the two of you then just because, I'll be out all day, counsel for part of it, and I was hoping you could escort Kyle to Fleet Hall for his piano lessons, He knows what to do," a frown began forming on Martin's lips as the artist prattled on, "And I'll pay for an early dinner for the two of you . . . oh and stay with him until I return home, he doesn't quite like being alone. You should be here before noon." Cohen finished with his instructions, speaking to Martin as if Kyle wasn't in the room at all.

"Uuh, you...want me to watch the kid for the day? Listen, Sander, I'm not really the best with ki-"

"Nonsense, the child's very well behaved, you'll get on fine." The older man wasn't looking for a discussion. Even with it asked like a favour, it was obviously a command. Martin sighed in defeat, agreeing to be at Cohen's place to pick up the kid as he was told.

_If the kid isn't ready to go when I get there, I'm going home. I'll deal with Sander's hissy fit._ Despite the silent thought, Martin grumbled as he approached the door leading to his destination. A quick rap on the faux wood and Martin heaved a sigh, already droning on impatience before his arm even returned to rest at his side. To the brunette's surprise it only took a moment before a slight shuffling was heard on the other side of the portal, it soon cracking open just enough to reveal the worried, pale eyes of the young pianist.

"G-good mornin' mista- Mister Finnegan." Voice soft and ever-so-slightly tinged with fear as he spoke. The redhead let go, allowing the door to slide fully open.

"I'm not gonna slap your wrist, kid. Now are you ready to go or what?" Irritation lined his words. The kid didn't seem to pick up on it, giving a brisk nod before running back into Cohen's apartment, retrieving his bag.

Cohen wasn't kidding when he claimed Kyle to be 'well behaved', the redhead staying silent, and walking just at Martin's heals the whole way to the bathysphere. The younger seemed to tremble even as he sat quietly on the plush seats of the sub. Martin couldn't help but glance over at the kid, catching the yellowing bruise circling his eye, wondering if the good behavior was only from it being beaten into him.

A sigh interrupted the soft music sounding from overhead, irritation melting with the breath. "..So, kid," He watched Kyle tense, "uh...how long do you usually practice?"

It really was pitiful, the kid's nervous movements; biting his lips, wringing his hands. "U-uh...two hours...S-sometimes... changes it a lot."

"Alright, new question; how long do you want to practice?"

Kyle frowned, the question seeming to frighten him.

Martin sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger, "...never mind-"

"M'sorry!" The redhead blurted out, pale eyes wide when Martin bothered to glance over at the sudden outburst.

"Jesus Christ kid, calm down, alright? You aren't doing anything wrong," he meant for his tone to be a bit more forceful, but it sounded more like soothing in his own ears. Probably for the best. Kyle seemed to calm, though only slightly, Obvious embarrassment at his outburst.

Martin gave up trying to talk to the kid for the time being.

Kyle seemed eager to reach their destination, rushing them along by increasing his pace ever so often, and even hoping quickly down the maroon steps leading to the back stage entrance in Fleet Hall.

The moment he sat down on the old wooden stool his posture changed, sitting fully upright, shoulders back as he moved the fall from it's place. Martin remained just inside the doorway, leaning against the far wall as he watch the redhead set up the music he had dug from his bag. As soon as he was settled the boy stopped, turning back to look at the brunette lounging behind him.

"Well...?" Martin interrupted the silence, "don't just sit there, aren't you supposed to..start practicing or something?"

Kyle's posture dissolved, hunching his shoulders as his expression turned to something akin to a pup that had just been scorned. Martin couldn't help but physically wince, surprised by the sudden urge to apologize. As told, the kid turned, placing his fingers on the keys as he slowly started practicing the piece in front him.

He showed natural talent. Though the kid would often miss a note or make a mistake with a chord, pause, find where he was again and restart the section. When he felt he had a hold of how it was supposed to be played he would restart form the beginning, playing until he made another mistake and started from there to work out the kinks. From what Martin could tell it wasn't the most difficult piece to play, but for the kid to be working at it without Cohen to guide him was pretty impressive.

Somewhere along the two hours they were in the wood paneled room Martin had given up sulking in the corner to lean against the old upright piano, watching Kyle work almost eagerly at the piece. The kid was different as he played; posture confident and eyes calm instead of wide and nervous as if he was being constantly threatened. He seemed more . . . _normal_ instead of acting like some abused runt. Though that's kind of what he was, wasn't it?

Martin huffed a sigh; bored. The noise caused the kid to jump, apparently unaware that the other man had come to stand so near to him. Surprisingly, Kyle spoke on his own without prompt, "I-It's been two hours...w-we can leave if ya'd like."

The brunette scoffed, more from amusement than irritation, "alright, kid, how about grabbin' something to eat; Sander gave me some cash to feed ya." It wasn't a question; Martin pushing himself up from the relaxed position he had taken against the piano. As he moved past the kid he couldn't help but reach out and ruffle those perfectly brushed ginger locks, pushing his head down in the slightest to get those wide blue eyes off of him.

The redhead let out an almost offended noise as a pout replaced the fear that had been plastered to his face. He grabbed the paper he had placed on the piano before scrambling to catch up with the brunette already half way back to the auditorium.


End file.
